


Health

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Health

"Go on, then, drink up." Elsie gestures at the glass of foul-tasting medicine and Carson grimaces, huffs his disgust, but drinks it, swallows it down, and hands her the glass. She smiles a little.

"You'll live; it's just flu."  _Just regular, ordinary flu,_  she thinks,  _thank god_. Thank god he'd recover, thank god it wasn't that terrible killing thing that had swept the house last year, taking Miss Swire, almost taking Her Ladyship. Just flu.

She collects his glass, his half-eaten plate of toast, his teacup. He frowns, fidgets with the bed covers. Elsie knows the signs all too well; he wants her to stay but he'll never ask, he doesn't want to be alone and bored but he'll never say as much. She sighs at him, pats the blanket.

"Would you like some company or shall I leave you to rest?"

Carson sits up, sniffles, pulls the blankets up higher. Tries his best to look ambivalent, disinterested. "If you've nothing better to do, you're welcome to stay."

Elsie rolls her eyes as she bustles out of his bedroom, muttering to herself all the way to the kitchen. "If I've nothing better to do — for land's sakes, Mr. Carson, don't overpower me with gratitude, heavens." But that's his way, and she's used to it, of course she is. She's used to all of his little ways, really, the bluster and the haughtiness and the pretense that he doesn't need anyone or anything. That he's fine on his own.

Even if he is, even if he's purely content to be left to his own devices, she's not fine with it. She has Mrs. Patmore, Anna has Mr. Bates, the maids have each other, Thomas and O'Brien are thick as thieves, even when on the outs. Who does he have? Who does he have when he's sick and tired and needs somewhere soft to land?

No one. Nowhere.

Just her. Just her and she's not sure if he wants her to be that, if he wants her to be anything except the housekeeper, but she would like to be that. She tries when she can, tries to give him little things, little moments of time.

He has always done that for her. She's not sure if he knows, but he has. The glances of solidarity, the big hand that touches her briefly on the arm when she's upset, the way he stands when she enters the room. He gives her so much, in his way, and never asks for anything.

She puts the dishes on the sideboard and goes to his office, looks for whatever novel he's working through at the moment. _Of Human Bondage_. Elsie crinkles her nose. _Cheerful_. Still, she'll take it along and read to him for a while if he'll let her, try to get him to settle down and rest instead of tossing and turning fretfully, worrying over this and that task that he's sure is being bungled by the footmen.

A perfunctory knock and she enters his bedroom, waves the book at him vaguely, settles back into the armchair. He's sweaty, miserable looking, and she smiles sympathetically.

"You'll be better soon, Mr. Carson. Don't look so mournful."

He grumbles at her, smashes at the pillow, settles himself down, and though she doesn't see it — she's busy opening the book, finding the place he marked — there is a look of relief in the grey eyes, an expression of knots untying, waves calming, lines smoothing. The tenderest gratitude. The quietest love.

 


End file.
